


Points of Contact

by DangerousCommieSubversive



Series: Connections [1]
Category: Birds of Prey (Comic)
Genre: 30-Day OTP Challenge, Feels, Humor, M/M, Slash, cross-posted to Tumblr, feels good though, god this was a lot of work, i may in fact be crazy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-31
Updated: 2012-12-31
Packaged: 2017-11-23 03:31:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 31
Words: 17,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/617590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DangerousCommieSubversive/pseuds/DangerousCommieSubversive
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A month of Savant and Creote, written for the 30-Day OTP Challenge. It covers rather more than a month in their lives, but it took a month of mine, and in the end I think I'm pretty pleased with it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Familiar

**Author's Note:**

> All of this was originally posted to [my Tumblr](http://dangerouscommiesubversive.tumblr.com/post/39327418382/30-day-otp-challenge-savant-creote-master-post)\--the link will take you to the master post, where you get comments that won't be included here. If you're not familiar with the [30-Day OTP Challenge](http://ericandy.tumblr.com/post/26596382488/ericandys-30-day-otp-challenge), check it out--it's pretty fun. If you're not familiar with Savant and Creote, I may not be able to help you. Go read some _Birds of Prey_. You won't regret it.
> 
> Oh, and one note. Any dialogue in brackets is spoken in Russian.
> 
> Share and enjoy!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Holding hands

It's a familiar scene, something that's happened many times before: they sit side by side on a rooftop, surveying the domain that they work so hard to protect. They're both tired and a little bloody, because it's been a long night, but generally it seems like everything has gone well. They've accomplished a lot. So now they sit on the edge of this rooftop, side by side, legs dangling over the edge, hands clasped between them.

Although that last part doesn't seem _so_ familiar. It seems...maybe not familiar. Maybe it just seems _right,_ having their fingers entwined like that. Brian really isn't sure, which bothers him. He doesn't like uncertainty. It's always harder to remember things properly at the end of the day, when his medication has started to wear off.

After a moment he says, “Creote?”

Creote looks down at him. “Yes, sir?”

He thinks about how to phrase it and then just asks, “Have we done this before?”

“Many times, sir. We always take a final look at our handiwork before we turn in.”

“No, no, not that. _This._ ” He raises their linked hands, not actually willing to let go. “It feels like we have, or maybe that we _should_ have, but I don't actually recall.”

After a moment Creote says, “No. This is the first time.”

“Oh. Well, help me make sure it's not the last time. This is nice.”

It's worth saying it just for the tiny smile on his companion's face.


	2. Respite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Cuddling somewhere

Failing to stop a bomb from going off in close quarters can be a career-ending mistake for the aspiring fighter of crime. Luckily, Brian's managed to make a _lot_ of career-ending mistakes that didn't actually end his career. And then he's also made some unexpectedly _good_ decisions as well, like when he met and hired the enormous Russian man currently crouched over him in the best-sheltered corner. _Creote_ had seen the signs of the impending explosion and crashed him into the corner without a word. Now that they're both there, though, there doesn't seem to be any particular impetus for him to move again. All the actual fighting was over _ages_ ago; the bomb was triggered by their post-asskicking investigations.

Oracle's voice is a crackle in his ear. _“What the hell was that?”_

“Ah...a pipe bomb. We're fine, though. Creote saved me.”

_“Well, stay put for a minute so I can get a read on you visually.”_

He shrugs, knowing that she can't see him. “Ok.”

Creote, who's been listening in to the entire conversation on his own comm, shrugs as well and sits beside him, an arm still around his shoulders. Brian shifts and settles more comfortably into the other man's protective embrace, enjoying the momentary respite from action.

Over the comms he hears the distant tapping of fingers on a keyboard, and then a quiet, _“Found them...oh my god, Dinah, come look at this.”_

Another voice, in the background. _“What—is that Savant and Creote? Are they_ snuggling? _They're so_ _cute!”_

Creote appeared to be suppressing a smile. Brian stiffened and started looking around for the surveillance camera. “Are you _ogling_ us?” Once he'd spotted the camera he made a rude gesture at it. “Voyeur.”


	3. Lost In Translation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Gaming/watching a movie

“I thought it was my turn to pick the movie.”

“My turn tonight. You picked last night.”

“Did I?” Brian turns to the huge calendar on the wall, frowning. “What's today?”

“Monday, sir. The fifteenth.”

“Oh. I _did_ pick last night. I thought _Memento_ was last week. I don't see what all the fuss was, anyway. It's really very straightforward.” He shrugs and settles down on the couch next to Creote. “What are we watching?”

“ _The Inhabited Island._ It's a Russian movie. You'll like it, I think.”

He squints at the back of the DVD case. It's in Russian. “Is this subtitled? I have a headache.”

“It isn't. I imported it.” Creote hits play and then leans back, stretching his vast arms along the back of the couch as if this is something that they've always been able to do. Like they've always been able to be this close.

The sudden, aching shock of comfort seems to require comment, and he's not sure what to say for a moment—it seems like now he's _always_ unsure of what to say. _Is this what a relationship is? Never knowing what to say to someone because you're not sure why they love you?_ “You can call me Brian, you know. If we're...you can call me Brian. I don't just have to be sir all the time.”

“And you can call me Sasha, if you like. Sir.” Brian can _hear_ Creote's smile. Did he smile this much before? He doesn't remember Creote smiling so much before. But then, he could be remembering things out of order again. “The movie is starting.”

It's late in the evening, which means his medication is running out, which in turn means that the movie is very hard to follow even with the soft rumble of Creote translating for him. He _thinks_ it's good. At least, Creote seems to be enjoying it, and the acting is decent. Brian's always had trouble watching movies, even when he's taken his medication recently and is actually _trying_ to focus.

He doesn't really _need_ to focus right now. Nobody's trying to kill him or...or anything like that. He can...he can just...

After a while Creote notices that Brian has fallen asleep and stops translating.


	4. Restaurant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: On a date

They were out because Creote—Sasha?—had insisted that he needed to get out of the house for a reason that didn't have to do with crimefighting or getting groceries. And going on dates is what normal couples do, right? Or at least people who love each other and are _probably_ in a romantic relationship, if Brian has his timeline straight. Not that he's ever been too keen on doing what normal people do, but he'd conceded that going on a date sounded nice.

So they're at a Japanese restaurant, in a tatami room, eating sushi, and neither of them really knows what to talk about. The situation suddenly seems enormous: they're _together,_ in public, not fighting anyone or destroying a meth lab or doing anything even _remotely_ related to crimefighting. They're just eating dinner.

Why is it so hard to talk?

“The, uh. The eel is very nice.”

“Yes. The spicy tuna roll as well. You should try one. Here.”

“You know, spicy tuna roll's not actually Japanese, it's from Calif—mm,” and he blinks, because Creote just leaned across the table with his chopsticks and _fed_ him one of the spicy tuna rolls. Like they're in some kind of teen movie. Chopsticks and sushi are at least ideally suited to that kind of behaviour, since then there's less chance of something awkward happening like getting food in one's lap or licking the other person's fingers in public. In _private,_ maybe—

“Sir?”

He swallows his mouthful of sushi, trying to focus. “You're right, that is good. Here, try some of the squid.”

They eat in comfortable silence for another few minutes, and then Brian's phone buzzes and he scowls. But when he digs it out of his pocket, intending to turn it off, he sees that the message is from Oracle.

[You guys are just too cute.]

He rolls his eyes and shows the message to Creote before texting her back. [Don't you have anything better to do? We're not a soap opera.]

[Penguin goons closing in on your location, lovebirds.]

[He's robbing a sushi restaurant?]

[It's owned by a Yakuza connection.]

[I knew you must have had some ulterior motive for recommending it.]

[Don't I always?]

[You remember that I don't work for you anymore, right?]

[Have fun on your date, boys.]

Creote raises an eyebrow. “Work?”

After all the fighting is over, the restaurant gives them their meal for free.

“We should go out more often.”

“Agreed.”


	5. Close

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Kissing

“That was too close!” Creote looks surprisingly angry, angrier than Brian has ever seen him before. “You could have been killed!”

“I had everything under control, Creote. You didn't need to be worried.”

“I didn't—<Those weren't men to be trifled with! I saw their eyes, they were madmen. What _possessed_ you to go in by yourself? To taunt them like that? >”

Brian frowns. Creote's started speaking Russian mid-sentence, which generally meant that he's _really_ upset. He hasn't started swearing, though, which hopefully means that he'll calm down soon—although hearing him swear _is_ always impressive. “ <It seemed like the most reasonable thing to do at the time. It _did_ do the trick. >”

“<There was another group of them waiting to ambush you!>”

“<Then isn't it a _good_ thing that you were out here to watch my back? I— >” and he's going to say something else, something to the effect of pointing out how _well_ he's actually managed to flush out the gang they came here to get rid of, but he doesn't get the opportunity, because his mouth is suddenly otherwise occupied.

It's not their _first_ kiss, no, but normally when they're kissing they're not in the middle of a meth lab surrounded by unconscious gang members. Somehow it's both jarring and incredibly romantic, like this whole thing was just a date in the first place. Like leaning on each other after a long fight ( _or an embrace in the pouring rain on the top of a dam_ ).

When Creote straightens back up Brian blinks several times, feeling distinctly overheated. “<What were we doing again?>”

“<Making the city safe for the innocent. Don't scare me so badly.>”

“<Do I still get kisses like that if I don't?>”

“<I don't see why you shouldn't.>”


	6. Laundry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Wearing each others' clothing

They stare at each other.

“I think I mixed up the laundry again.”

“I think so, sir.”

Most of their clothes look the same, so they'd dressed without thinking, only realizing now that they've put on each others' clothes. For Brian, it only serves to throw into sharp relief the fact that Creote is much, _much_ bigger than him—in his companion's shirt he feels dwarfed, and while the jeans he's put on stay up with a belt, the legs are several inches too long for him. After a moment he realizes that Creote's clothes even _smell_ different. They smell like Creote. Why did he never realize how good the other man smells?

For his part, Creote looks vast in Brian's clothes. His shirt is stretched tight, pulling up slightly at the bottom, and the jeans won't even button. It's...actually very distracting.

Brian swallows hard and grabs fresh clothes from the correct drawer—which is to say, from Creote's half of the dresser, in which he actually put his own things. “We. You. I. We have somewhere to be, right?”

“Right.” Creote frowns as he goes through the other drawer for a different outfit. “Why?”

“I'm going to go change. Somewhere else.”

“Hm?”

“Before I get sidetracked.”


	7. Slash

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Cosplaying

“Why are we doing this again?” Brian scratches at the back of his head, loathing the wig more every second he wears it. It's not _quite_ as bad as the false beard, which _itches,_ but he _likes_ his hair.

“Oracle believes that this convention may be infiltrated by minions of the Joker and wishes us to investigate.” Creote is having nearly as much trouble with the helmet he's wearing, which is restricting his peripheral vision rather badly. “And she said that the ladies would attract unwelcome attention.”

“But... _this._ The _costumes._ Why do we need to be dressed up? I know she explained, but...”

“We are in costumes because she is a cruel woman who enjoys our suffering.”

“That does make sense. I do like this coat, though, I think it suits me rather nicely. I think I'll keep it once we're done with this. I'll have the collar cut down, of course. And I could use a staff like this.” He hefts it approvingly. “What is my character supposed to do with this thing?”

“I believe he shoots energy from it, sir.”

“Holy _shit._ ”

They both look up in surprise. They've been approached by a small group of convention-goers, mostly teens. The group is almost all boys, but there are two girls with them, dressed in what Brian recognizes vaguely are outfits from some anime, _Revolutionary_ something. Anyway they're carrying swords, and if he didn't recognize them he would have pegged _them_ as suspicious people to watch. As it is they're sort of adorable, and when did he start thinking people were adorable?

The boy who spoke is clutching a camera and looks delighted. “You are seriously the _best_ Juggernaut cosplayer I've ever seen. And I think you,” turning to Brian, “are the _first_ Black Tom Cassidy cosplayer I've ever seen. Can I get a picture?”

Brian and Creote glance at each other, shrug, and strike a pose—one of several that Oracle had made them memorize before sending them to this event. Cameras flash.

One of the girls is taking pictures with her phone. She grins. “Can you say, 'No one can stop the Juggernaut'? I wanna take a video.”

Creote obliges her. They're drawing onlookers, and more people with cameras. It's actually very fun.

The other girl taps on her phone for a moment. “Can you do this panel? I mean, normally I wouldn't bother asking, but you both look pretty strong.”

They inspect the picture she's showing them. It looks fairly easy. The first boy who spoke to them looks at it too and groans. “Oh my god, Stacey, you've been reading _Deadpool Classic_ again? Juggernaut and Black Tom are _not gay._ ”

“Shut _up,_ Stephen. I _like_ this panel. Will you guys do that one? Please? You'll totally make my day. I'll buy you ice cream.” The girl—Stacey—smiles up at them hopefully.

They glance at each other and shrug, and then Creote leans down and picks up Brian up. Brian does his best to imitate the picture, although it's difficult to wilt and look deathly ill when you're in perfect health and not covered in some sort of wood growth. Not that he's not an excellent actor. He's excellent at a lot of things.

Cameras flash. The crowd of people taking pictures has gotten bigger.

“Thanks, that was awesome!” Stacey the Cosplayer giggles. “I think the only way it could be more awesome is if you kissed, but I'm not going to ask you to do that.”

“Oh my _god, Stacey,_ will you cut it out with the _slash,_ that's _so_ gross.”

Brian and Creote glance at the boy speaking, and then at each other. “I don't like his tone, do you, Creote?”

“No, sir, not at all.”

They kiss.

More cameras. Stacey the Cosplayer says, “Oh my god, I'm _definitely_ buying you guys ice cream. You just _made_ my _week._ I have a _photo_ of my OTP!”

When they go to get ice cream with Stacey the Cosplayer they find that the Joker's infiltrators are actually running the ice cream stand, too, so it's a mission well-accomplished.


	8. Awkward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Shopping

The plan was, of course, to go get clothing—after the laundry mix-up of what Brian is pretty sure was a week ago, a number of his shirts have gotten badly stretched (because Creote's _really_ not his size), and he needs a few more. But of course it's very difficult for them to go to the mall without getting distracted by things that are more interesting than clothing.

Like, for example, the strange little store that popped up in the wake of the most recent Gotham City Comic Con. Mostly it sells books and comics, but it does also have a _very_ exciting cutlery counter.

“I don't like this one.” Brian frowns down at the slim sword in his hands. It's a lovely _visual_ rendition of a sixteenth-century French style, but for actual _practical_ purposes it leaves something to be desired. “The balance is off.”

Creote is inspecting a set of throwing knives next to him. “These are very nice, though. Good weight.”

“Excuse me, can I get in here? I wanna get a look at those escrima sticks.”

They turn, and the woman standing there waiting to get a look at the case is—Dinah Laurel Lance, Black Canary, with a soft pretzel in hand.

She pauses midway through raising her pretzel to her mouth. “ _Oh._ It's you two.”

Brian shifts out of the way immediately. “We're just shopping, I promise you.”

“Sure, of course. You're allowed to shop.” But she doesn't look pleased to see them. Brian isn't sure how long ago it was that he was their enemy, but he knows that she doesn't always like him.

“Dinah.” Because of course Barbara Gordon is here too, in her chair just behind Dinah. “Nobody's in costume right now. In fact, I think we agreed that this was a no capes, no punching day on the town.”

Creote has moved around behind Brian, frowning, and the store clerk is looking at them with some concern. Brian can see his hand hovering underneath the counter, probably near some kind of emergency call button. So even _civilians_ can smell the tension here. It's a little galling to know that they're so obvious.

After a moment Dinah relaxes, sighing. “True. We did say that.” She attempts a smile. “So did you two come here to check this place out too?”

Brian makes a similarly strained attempt at smiling. “Not really. We had a, ah, mix-up with the laundry and now I need new shirts.”

Her silence in response to this is worrying, until he realizes that she's not looking at him anymore, she's looking at Creote, and her smile is no longer forced but amused. He looks back and up and sees that Creote looks amused as well, and he begins to get a worried feeling as his companion says, “Would you like to come with us?”

“You know, I think I would.”

As Dinah moves in to look at the escrima sticks Brian falls back, standing next to Barbara, feeling a little lost. “What just happened?”

Barbara pats him comfortingly on the arm. “Your guy just gave Dinah permission to play dress-up with you for the rest of the afternoon.”

That's _definitely_ a sinking feeling in his stomach. “He did?”

“Don't worry, I'm for it too. She was making noises earlier about updating my wardrobe.”

“This is revenge, isn't it?” And come to think of it, now Creote and Dinah are looking _very_ chummy, and they've started murmuring to each other, just too quiet for him to hear.

“Probably a little.” Barbara smiles. “You'll probably come out of it looking very nice, though.”


	9. My Hero

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Hanging out with friends

How has he ended up with so many bags?

Brian has two garment bags, and four carrier bags from different stores. Creote _also_ has two bags, Dinah has two, Barbara has three more hanging from the handles of her chair, and Helena Bertinelli, who met them at the second store, has five. It was only by main force and concentrated group protestations of hunger that Dinah was prevented from dragging them into “just one last store, you'd look _so_ good in this jacket, I swear.” He suspects that they might have been able to stop one or two stores earlier, but the others seem to have been taking a perverse pleasure in dressing him up and parading him around. When he'd tried to explain that he was neither a fashion model, nor a performing monkey, Creote had just patted him on the shoulder and told him that he looked very nice and not to complain so much.

Now they've finally managed to _stop_ at the food court, instead of criss-crossing back and forth past it on their way to one store or another. The Gotham City Mall is enormous, though, and its food court is to scale, so it's just as overwhelming as any busy department store. Brian stares at the vast number of food choices. “I...don't actually know what I want to eat.”

“Go get us a table, then.” Dinah beams at him, any previous animosity apparently forgotten in the afterglow of trial by fitting room. “Creote can pick something for you.”

“Ok.” He takes Creote's bags, finds himself accepting Helena's and Dinah's as well, and wanders off into the wilds of the food court to find an empty table in the wheelchair-accessible section.

As he sits down, he's startled by a cry of, “Oh my god, it _is_ you!”

He looks up in surprise. “It is?” A hoodie-wearing girl with a cast on one arm is standing by his table, looking thrilled, and after a second of wracking his brain he comes up with, “Stacey!”

“You remember me!” She smiles with such genuine pleasure that he's thrown a little off-balance. “Is your boyfriend here too?”

“Yes, he...he's getting some food. We're shopping with some friends.” Which is strange, he realizes, because he's not really used to having friends, just Creote. Also, that's actually the first time anyone has referred to Creote as his _boyfriend,_ which...isn't quite the term he'd use, but hearing it warms something in the pit of his stomach. “How's your arm?”

She shrugs, waving her cast, which is half-covered in signatures and drawings. “It's ok. Apparently there were a couple of different fractures, but the doctor said that if you hadn't gotten me there in time it would've been much worse. I, um. I wanted to give you this. The convention people said they'd forward it to your registration address, I was heading to their office after this, but you're here! So. Here.” She digs in her pocket and comes up with...a small package, which she hands to him.

He opens it, blinking. Inside is a keychain, with a little blue-and-gold shield dangling from it that he recognizes vaguely from some video game series, and a card with a photograph in it. The card says, in shakey off-hand handwriting, _Thank you both so much for saving me! You're my hero! Love, your friend, Stacey._ The photo is of himself and Creote, their convention costumes in tatters, charging head-on into the crowd of Joker goons who had been running the ice cream stand.

“I know it's not much, but I kinda blew all my money on the registration fee, and that's the Hero Shield from _Zelda_ anyway, so...” She blushed. “Thank you. For saving me.”

It's touching in a way that he wasn't expecting, even more than realizing that he has friends. “It was...you're welcome. I'm glad you're all right.”

“Hey! Who's your friend?” It's Helena. She and Dinah have arrived at the table with a tray of horrifyingly greasy fast food, and they smile at Stacey as they sits down.

Barbara and Creote are close behind them, and Creote blinks as he squeezes onto the bench next to Brian. “Stacey? How is your arm?”

“It's good! See?” She holds up her cast so Creote can see it. “My friends decorated it for me.”

“Dinah, Helena, Barbara, this is Stacey.” Brian smiles nervously and leans in when Creote kisses him on the top of the head—in public, they are at a place in their relationship where sometimes he's kissed in public, and that's also still strange. “We met at the convention.”

“They saved me from Joker goons! It was awesome!”

Barbara shoots Brian an approving look as she pulls her chair in to the table and then offers a hand to Stacey. “I'm Barbara. It's nice to meet you. Have you eaten lunch yet?”

Stacey shifts on her feet as they shake hands. “No. I don't really have the money for—”

“Would you like to eat with us? We have more than enough, and _some_ people here—” she shoots a teasing smile at Dinah, “have bigger eyes than mouths.”

“Um...sure, if that's all right with you.” Stacey addresses Barbara, but her eyes are on Creote and Brian, and when they nod she smiles again and sits down on Brian's other side, accepting the cheeseburger that Helena offers her. “Thanks!”

As everyone digs into their food Brian passes the card and keychain to Creote, who looks at them and smiles.

“Oh my god, though, you're Dinah? I'm Stacey. You look _just_ like Black Canary, I'm such a huge fan of hers! I went as her for Halloween last year, but my sensei says I have to practice a lot more if I'm going to be as good as she is...”


	10. Midas Has Donkey's Ears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: With animal ears

“Sir? Why have you locked yourself in the bathroom?”

“Nothing! No reason!” Brian stares at the mirror, distressed.

“Then why won't you come out?”

“I...I'm not feeling well. I might be sick. I should stay in here.”

“If you're sick then you should let me in so I can take care of you.”

“No, no, it's ok, really!”

A long pause, and then Creote says, “<If you don't open the door and tell me what's going on I'm going to lift it off its hinges and haul you out of there. You're worrying me.>”

Brian sighs and opens the door. “Please don't laugh at me.”

Creote doesn't laugh, but it's clearly an effort. He _does_ reach out and run a finger gently up the edge of one of Brian's ears, which are noticeably longer and furrier than normal. “What happened to you? Why do you have donkey's ears?”

“I think I made Zatanna angry.” He hangs his head. “I'm not sure what it was that I said, but she looked very upset. She said it would wear off in a few hours, but...I don't think I can go out again until it does.” He flicks an ear sadly. “I think that—oh. What are you doing?”

Creote has started scratching his ears. It's really very soothing. “Perhaps you were being stubborn and she got frustrated. We will whisper it into a hole in the ground and never tell anyone else.”

“I seem to remember that backfiring in the story. That feels very nice. Am I really that argumentative?”

“Not typically.” Creote pauses in thought. “Not _precisely._ You do things very much your own way. I have never met Zatanna, though, so I cannot judge—she may have felt that you were a stubborn ass, thus the ears. Or foolish, like in the Shakespeare play.”

“I _try_ not to be foolish.”

“I like you the way you are.”

“You do?”

“Of course.” And he's _smiling_ again. He keeps doing that, the tiny little smile. Where is it coming from all of a sudden? “Donkeys are very smart animals. I've always been fond.”

“That makes me extremely happy to hear, but I still look ridiculous.”

“If you like we can stay in and hack the Lexcorp security computers.”

Brian feels his ears stand up, which is apparently connected to the thought that, “That...actually sounds wonderful.”

“I am told that the executive break room feed is particularly interesting.”

“Can we blackmail someone with the footage? I haven't gotten to blackmail anyone in ages.”

“That _would_ be foolish.”

Brian flicks an ear and smiles.


	11. Circus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Wearing kigurumis

_“Ok, boys, how's it going there?”_

“I am wearing a large bear costume. It restricts my peripheral vision and range of movement severely.”

There's a sound of stifled laughter over the comms. _“Well, we all have to do things we're not happy about sometimes.”_

“I don't know.” Brian looks down at himself. “I rather like my outfit.”

“ _You_ look very fetching. _I,_ however, am dressed as a dancing bear.”

 _“You could have been clowns.”_ _That_ voice is familiar in other ways, a deep growl that somehow manages to be both vaguely irritable and filled with humor. _“Oracle said that you would prefer to be a bear.”_

Creote nods, which looks very strange in the enormous bear suit. “That is true. Clowns are unpleasant.”

 _“That would be why we're here. Now get in character.”_ Batman's voice is not unkind, but it's hardly friendly.

Brian straightens the collar on his coat and adjusts his top hat. A ringmaster's costume isn't _strictly_ the appropriate accompaniment to a dancing bear, but bear handlers don't have any kind of iconic look, so he had to improvise. Next to him Creote plucks at the vest on his bear suit, and Brian can _hear_ his discomfort. It's hard not to smirk, and then he remembers that he needs to be in character, so he smirks anyway. “Chin up, Creote. We're doing good in the world.”

“Yes,” Creote sighs. “I suppose we are.”

As they walk into the warehouse they see Helena and Dinah cartwheel in through another entrance, dressed as acrobats. Two slim teens who Brian knows are Batgirl and Robin stand near the front of the crowd of circus-themed criminals, holding the leash of a hound much larger than the average performing dog. Near the back of the room, he knows, are another pair, costumed as a sword-swallower and a fire eater—Batman and Nightwing.

 _“I've almost got a visual.”_ Oracle's voice has gone quiet. _“Is the Joker there yet?”_

 _“Not yet, Oracle.”_ The boy, Robin, is preternaturally calm for someone so young. _“But I can hear him talking in the back room.”_

_“Good. Do you all know what you're doing?”_

“Yes,” rumbles Creote from within the bear costume. “We are saving the day.”


	12. Alley

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Making out

Every free moment now is an excuse to be close to each other. They work together anyway, have always worked together, roam their chosen ground as a pair, but even in the worst of cities, not all nights are busy nights. There are as many quiet times as there are crimes to stop, little moments of silence in which they can, however briefly, revel in simply being _together,_ young (or young-ish) and shockingly, unreasonably in love.

This particular quiet moment is just _after_ thwarting a robbery, some neo-Nazi punks trying to shake down a convenience store. The criminals are bound, the police are on their way, all of the employees of the store are unharmed if shaken. There's an alley behind the store where they can avoid scrutiny and enjoy a moment of solitude, and so while it's not an _entirely_ appropriate place to be kissing, it _is_ serving them very well for the moment.

Brian is leaned back against the wall, his hand under Creote's shirt, pleasantly out of breath and very much enjoying the feeling of scarred flesh under his hand. Creote's fingers are twisted in his ponytail, and whenever their mouths meet it's like a small, dizzying explosion. Clearly nothing in the world can be as good as this, nothing will ever be as perfect as bruises on their knuckles and their bodies pressed close together. Crimefighters in love.

He hears the crunch of footsteps at the mouth of the alley.

“Don't fucking move! I've got a gun!”

A mugger. Their gazes flick towards him, but he's clearly no threat, so they ignore him.

“I'm talking to you, assholes! Gimme your wallets!”

Slightly more irritating, but still something they can ignore.

“Hey, _fags—_ ”

 _It would be nice,_ Brian thinks absently as he hears the crunch of a breaking nose, _if_ every _sentence that started with “hey, fags” could end with Creote's fist in the speaker's face._

Creote wipes his hand on his jeans, leaving a streak of blood behind. “He was very rude.”

“Yes.” Brian twists his hand in the other man's t-shirt and pulls him back down. “Couldn't he see we were busy?”


	13. Stakeout

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Eating ice cream

They don't even wait for Dinah to get annoyed with them. Creote just hands her it to her as soon as she gets to their location. “We bought you some as well.”

She opens her mouth as if to yell at them for sitting down on the job and then looks down in surprise at the cone of chocolate ice cream she's just been given. “Um...ok, thanks. Why are we having ice cream again?”

“Nobody's here yet. Harley isn't due back for another fifteen minutes.” Brian has his ice cream in one hand and binoculars in the other, and he's having some difficulty keeping the frozen treat entirely within the cone. “We thought a snack might be nice.”

“I...guess that makes sense.” She sits down on the edge of the roof on Creote's other side and takes a lick at her ice cream. “Thanks for getting me a cone.”

“You're welcome.”

They sit in silence, eating their ice cream and waiting for Harley Quinn to return to the _other_ warehouse the Joker has been using. Batman took in the Joker himself at the Criminal Carnival, but Harley remains at large, and they suspect that she may be planning something else. Most likely she wants to break Joker out of Arkham again, but no matter what she's up to, it's worth keeping an eye on. Brian keeps the binoculars to his eyes, trying to make out the titles of the few books she has scattered around her bed; perhaps they're clues to what she's after.

His ice cream is melting.

He only realizes what's happened when he feels something unexpectedly cold, and when he lowers his binoculars he sees that there's a light brown stream of coffee ice cream trailing halfway down the inside of his forearm. There aren't any napkins, either, he and Creote forgot to get them, and so he frowns and licks the ice cream trail off. At least it still tastes good, even if it's not cold anymore.

When he's done he realizes that Creote and Dinah are both staring at him. “What?”

Creote says, sounding somewhat dazed, “Your ice cream melted.”

Dinah, who has already finished her cone, elbows Creote gently. “He is _very_ pretty, isn't he.”

Brian can feel himself blushing. Why is he blushing? _“What?”_


	14. Cheesecake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Genderswapped

The shockwave hit at the site of the Bat-Signal and rippled outward over the city, not a bomb but some kind of _mystical_ force, and in its wake people staggered and caught themselves and felt...different.

It took a moment for them to realize what had happened, and then a deep voice over the comms said, _“What in the world was that?”_

Brian looked down, realizing that something felt wrong, and let out an undignified and surprisingly high-pitched noise. “I'm a woman!” He— _she—_ looked around frantically for a mirror, spotted a shop window, and hurried over.

“And part of my shirt is gone!”

That was _very_ true. Whatever had changed the city had also changed everyone's outfits to match their new bodies—or at least to accentuate them somehow. Brian had lost her ponytail holder, and her shirt was _much_ tighter and several inches shorter, revealing an expanse of flat stomach that she would have been pleased with if she hadn't felt so _exposed._ Her jeans were tighter and rode low on her hips, and instead of the sneakers she'd _been_ wearing she now had on a pair of high heels. Luckily whatever had caused the transformation had somehow _also_ given her the ability to walk in said heels.

She had breasts. They were _huge._ “How do women live like this? I feel like I'm carrying a ten ton weight on my chest.”

_“We're used to it.”_

“Wait...Oracle? Is that _you?_ I thought it was Batman.”

_“Nope. I'm a man. Can't say I'm thrilled about it. Batman tells me that Bat-Mite is responsible somehow.”_

“And...Creote, where are you?”

“Here, sir.”

 _Also_ higher-pitched than usual, so apparently abrupt sex changes are endemic to the entire city. Brian turns. Her jaw drops.

The appropriate term, she supposes, would be _Amazonian._ Creote as a woman wouldn't necessarily look out of place on Themyscira, though she's broader in the shoulders than the other Amazons Brian knows of. Her outfit has also been modified, apparently to highlight a number of things that Brian would want to pay a great _deal_ of attention to if this were a date and not patrol. She's curvaceous, well-muscled, _extremely_ attractive (not that Creote _isn't_ attractive as a man, but Brian likes women too), and looking at Brian with some distress. “Sir, you look...”

“What?” Creote's reaction is worrying. Brian glances at her reflection in the window again to confirm what she saw before. “Under the circumstances I think I'm pleased. We look very good.”

“I suppose.” Creote shifts, awkward in a pair of very fashionable knee-high boots. Brian isn't sure why Creote's outfit change necessitated a switch to a skirt, but she can't say she's complaining. The view is quite nice. Her shirt also has a little _window_ in it, or a keyhole or something, which is making it _very_ difficult to keep looking at her face. “I am...uncomfortable.”

“You are? Why?” Brian watches Creote, notices where her eyes are going, and comes to an unsettling thought. “Is it me? I think I look nice. I think _you_ look nice. Am I...am I not attractive like this?”

“Sir, my body may at the moment be female, but that does not change the fact that I am a man attracted to other men. The experience is jarring.”

“Oh. I hadn't thought of that.”

A thump nearby alerts them to the arrival of a blonde man, and it takes Brian a moment to realize that the man is Dinah—wearing a leather jacket and pants, hair tied back, the way Brian usually dresses. He lets out a huffing breath as he looks at them. “ _Yow._ I am feeling...much less straight than usual. You know, I think I might change my costume once we get back to normal, having pants is actually pretty nice. Where did half of your shirt go?”

Brian looks down at her stomach again. “I'm not sure.”

“And how did Creote get a skirt?”

Creote shifts again. The skirt in question pulls up slightly to reveal a distracting flash of muscular thigh, and...Creote is _blushing._ _Creote_ is blushing as she tugs her skirt down again, trying to cover more leg. “This is extremely unpleasant.”

“You look _good._ Did you always have such nice legs? Savant, does he always have nice legs? I haven't gotten to see so much of them before.”

Brian glances over at Dinah and notices that he seems to be having some trouble tearing his eyes away. A thought occurs to her, and she sniffs haughtily. “You're ogling. Don't be a pig.” Then another thought. “...is this what you feel like all the time?”

Dinah shrugs, looking embarrassed. “Yeah, pretty much. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to stare. You're both just kind of...all out there.”

It's another half hour before the second shockwave hits, and when it settles again they're all back in their normal bodies, as suddenly as the first change was. Brian barely has a moment to stretch before Creote seizes him, hugging him tightly. Behind them, Dinah curses quietly. “I _liked_ those pants. I wonder if I could find them again.”

Brian realizes then that half of his shirt is still missing. “Why haven't I gotten my shirt back? I feel very exposed.”

“Maybe it's because you complained. Welcome to my world.” Dinah pats him on the shoulder.

“Being a woman _was_ interesting, though. Maybe I should try it again sometime. Creote?”

Creote's hand is on the (really very vulnerable when bare like this) small of Brian's back, and his voice is rough. “I prefer you male.”


	15. Subterfuge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: In a different clothing style

“I'm Batman.”

It still doesn't sound right. He clears his throat and tries again.

“I'm Batman.”

“You're not growling enough,” says the Batman next to him, who is normally Nightwing. “To really sound like him you have to growl so much that you need cough drops afterwards. He goes through a lot of those.”

Brian nods and tries a third time. “I'm Batman.”

“Better.”

“I don't see how he goes around with this mask on all the time.” _That_ Batman is normally _Superman,_ which is just unbearably thrilling. He's tugging at his mask. “It's very uncomfortable.”

“Stoicism.” They all turn to look at the Batman who's normally Creote, and he shrugs. “From what I have seen of him. His functioning is a product of self-denial.”

Nightwing/Batman nods. “Yeah, pretty much.”

All in all there are currently six Batmen in the room, none of whom, as far as Brian can tell, are _the_ Batman. One of the Batmen is in fact a woman, Helena, her body squared out with some kind of padding and a voice modulator on her throat. She rolls her eyes at the sixth Batman. “Couldn't you at least shave?”

“No, no, it's cool.” The sixth Batman is normally Green Arrow. His beard is poking out from under the cowl. “I'll just Bela Lugosi all night. He does that all the time.” He demonstrates by holding his cape up over the lower half of his face, and Superman/Batman stifles a laugh.

“So as soon as we leave this room we scatter.” Nightwing/Batman gestures to the map of Gotham up on the wall. “You all know your beats. Let's show Metallo that Gotham isn't a city to mess with. We'll take ten to get ready, and then go on my signal.”

There are nods and murmurs of assent, and they all start doing their final stretches, trying to wear in their unfamiliar costumes a bit before going out on the street.

A couple of minutes before it's time to go, Creote twists a hand in Brian's cape and pulls him close. “Stay safe.”

“You do the same.” They kiss.

“Ok, now that...that is just _eerie._ ” Green Arrow/Batman scratches at his beard. “Anyone else? Eerie?”

“Yeah, that's replacing seeing myself as a guy in haunting my nightmares.” Helena/Batman adjusts the back of her cowl.

“Oh god why did you even mention that?” Nightwing/Batman pinches the bridge of his nose. “I just realized that now I know what Bat-Mite's thinking about when he's—”

He's silenced by Superman/Batman's frown. “That'll be quite enough of that.”

Brian looks up at Creote, and then over at the other Batmen, and then he slumps forward, his cowled forehead hitting Creote's chest with a thump as he sighs. “If you're all done using our private moment to fuel your disturbing fantasies, we have work to do.”


	16. Matutinal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: During their morning ritual

First, when he wakes, there is always disorientation, arriving at consciousness in a room that he often does not recognize and cannot recall falling asleep in. It used to frighten him, not knowing where he was, waking not to anything familiar but the ghosts of past agony or indefinable loss. Now, though, he wakes up beside someone else, someone who loves him, and because a great part of memory is stimulus-based, it seems like it's always been so. He often finds himself wishing that it _has_ always been so, _can_ always be so, all other things suspended in favor of this one endless moment, of waking warm and loved.

Creote knows this, knows he enjoys it, and so they extend the moment for as long as they can before getting out of bed. Then they shower, separately or together depending on the mood, and brush their teeth, and then there is the daily argument about whether or not Brian has taken his pills yet—he can always remember taking them, quite clearly, but Creote always insists that he hasn't yet. _That_ argument has been happening for longer than their relationship, because that's part of what he hired Creote for in the first place, but Creote wins more now that he's not being _paid_ to do it.

Brian isn't allowed to cook in the mornings, which are really more early afternoons for them, because until his medication kicks in he can't be relied upon to do things in the right order, which is a pressing issue when you're trying to make pancakes and can't remember what you've already added. Besides, Creote makes _delicious_ pancakes, and Brian can wash last night's dishes while he's cooking.

Other than the daily pill argument they don't really talk much. Later in the day there's always plenty of time for conversation, but mornings are the only time outside of battle that they move with complete synchronicity. Mundane rituals are a comfort in the bizarre whirlwind that is their life. They don't even listen to music; everything is narrowed down to the sounds of running water and frying bacon and the small noises of two people for the most part content with their lives.

It's only when breakfast nears its end and Brian's medication has started to take effect that either of them normally says anything, and it's normally Brian who starts, with the same question, every morning. “Is this real?”

“Yes.”

“You're certain?”

“Very certain.”

“I'm not.”

“I know.”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.”


	17. Points of Contact

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Spooning

The bed is barely big enough for one of them, but somehow they manage to fit on it together, Brian curled around his injured arm and Creote around Brian. It's not _their_ bed, of course, just an old hospital cot that they snagged for one of their patrol hiding places, but it serves its purpose. They need places where they can hide and do triage on any serious battle wounds, and then afterward they need somewhere quiet to recover, breathless and impatient to return to their work. Batman, they know, simply does without places like this and does all his medical work once he's returned to wherever he lairs, but they're not so stoic.

The arm isn't broken, but it's badly gashed, and the galling thing is that it's not even from an opponent. It's just from a protruding piece of metal that Brian happened to stumble into. The cut was fairly clean, so with their extensive first aid kit it was a quick fix, but they'd had to get to the hiding place first, and _that_ was how Brian had lost so much blood.

Creote fed him something, he thinks an apple, but he still feels dizzy and lightheaded. He laughs weakly, almost a _giggle._ “That was very unpleasant.”

“Yes.” Creote's voice is muffled by Brian's hair. “We should stop for the night.”

“What? But we've barely started!” The cot gives a warning creak as Brian shifts, trying to get up, but Creote pulls him back. “We were going to look at the...the...I don't remember. We were going to look at something _very important_ and I don't remember. I don't usually forget very important things.” He laughs again. “Isn't that funny?”

“You have lost a great deal of blood and should be resting.” _That_ is a tone that brooks no argument, especially when it's accompanied by an arm across his chest and the suggestion of furrowed brows on the face pressed against the back of his neck. “I worry about you.”

“This cot isn't really big enough for both of us, you know. Why did you get on with me? Not that this isn't _nice,_ but I think it's going to break soon,” which is of course accompanied by another ominous creak.

Creote doesn't say anything, and after a moment the urge to babble fades and they just lie there, together, because ultimately the most important things in life are in fact moments, especially in as fragmented a life as Brian leads. Linear order isn't as important as points of contact, physical and mental, and it's in those points of contact that context is found. This moment, here, has a point in his mind where it meets another moment from what he's sure is several years ago, when he walked into a bar with a nasty reputation intending to hire a bodyguard, and _that_ moment connects to his realization one morning that all of his pills were the same pill over and over, which was why he so often forgot to take them. He read _Slaughterhouse-Five_ when he was in high school and almost, _almost_ understood the aliens, he forgets what they were called, because they saw all times at once. But they still saw it as a track. Time isn't a track, it's a spiderweb and perhaps also a maze, given how frequently he gets lost in it, and where the strings (or perhaps walls) meet are points of contact, from,

_“You're hired”_

and webbing out and back to this right now, this safety, this cot in serious danger of collapse, this hand on his stomach and chest against his back, this carefully tied bandage, and all of these points and so many more together form a picture that means _love._

Or else that might be the blood loss talking.

“What was that?”

Did he say that out loud? “Have I been talking?”

“Only just now. You mumbled something.” Fingers trace an abstract pattern on his abdomen. _Points of contact._ “Are you still dizzy? We should get something more substantial for you to eat, but this is not a sanitary place for dinner.”

“I think I can stand,” he says, not standing. “We could get Greek.” The first meal they ever shared, Creote ordered dolmades and ate them with a delicacy that seemed shocking for such a large man. “There's a restaurant near here, right? And the cot is about to break.”

When they get up the cot groans as if in relief at the sudden lack of weight. The thin mattress retains a small bloodstain and the imprint of two bodies pressed so close together that they're almost one.


	18. Brand Recognition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Doing something together

There's a trick to it. It's all a matter of balancing the weight and getting used to the unusual shape, plus a little flick of the wrist that shouldn't be possible in heavy gauntlets, but is somehow perfectly simple. Heft, pull back, and _flick..._

The batarang whistles back to his hand with a little thump, and he grins. “I _like_ these.” He tosses it again, and it describes a lazy arc through the air at head height before returning to him. “These are _fun._ We should get more of them.”

“How do you suggest we do that?” Creote isn't liking his so much. “Batman won't take well to our borrowing his equipment.”

“He doesn't need to know. We can have some made. We managed to get these two, and that's the important thing.” _Flick._ This time it pings off of a streetlamp before returning to his hand. “I want more of them. Perhaps I could get them in a different shape. I need a logo. Don't you think we should have a logo? All the big names have one.”

“Your codename doesn't lend itself to logos, and I don't have one.” Creote is still frowning down at the batarang in his hand. He's only tried to throw it once, and it clanged off a wall before falling to the ground.

“That's right, you don't. We could give you one. It's all about branding, you know. That's why Batman is so famous. You've seen his boots, right? He has his logo _in the tread._ ” _Flick._ “Now _that_ is brand recognition. If you have a codename then we can have a _team_ name, with a logo, and then we can be just as big as he is.” _Thump._

“I'm bigger than he is.”

“You _know_ what I mean.” _Flick._ “Here, like this.” Brian reaches up to adjust Creote's grip on the batarang, catching his own when it returns without even looking up at it. “So we need to figure out what your gimmick is. Mine is easy. _I_ can learn anything.”

Creote tosses his batarang. It whips around in an easy curve but wobbles slightly in the air, and then falls abruptly to the ground when caught by an errant breeze. He scowls. “I don't have a gimmick.”

“Well, you _could._ You're very intelligent, and you used to be KGB so you have all kinds of special training, and you know...how many martial arts?” _Flick._

“Five.” He collects his batarang.

“And you're large. You're very large and good-looking. There's that. Big Barda bases her whole _image_ on the fact that she's a large woman.” _Thump._ “I'm sure we could do something with that.”

At that Creote almost smiles. “I don't think we can base my entire heroic identity on the fact that you find me attractive.”

“I don't _find_ you attractive, you _are_ attractive. It's an objective fact. Lady Blackhawk thought so too.”

“That makes me very happy. Nevertheless, I don't need a codename. My own name is fine.” _Flick._

Brian blinks. “You did it! That was the exact move!”

Creote's batarang curves through the air, turning and turning _exactly_ like it should and drawing a long ellipse through the night as it comes back around and—

“Look out!”

_Thump._

Creote stumbles back, wincing and rubbing at his temple where the batarang hit him. The spot starts to bruise almost immediately along the thin line where the edge made impact, turning purple and red. Brian rushes forward, horrified. “Are you all right?”

“I'll live.” Creote picks the batarang up from the ground, looks at it for a moment, and then hands it to Brian. “I don't think these are a weapon for me.”


	19. Gala Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: In formalwear

Getting invited was not something they'd expected, but once Barbara found out that _she_ had to go, everyone else was for it, because, as she said, “Misery loves company, especially when there are canapes.” Plans for the evening are basic; they can easily skip out before the end of the Wayne Foundation holiday gala and go catch some criminals without anyone noticing.

The real trouble was finding a tuxedo that fit Creote. Not that he hasn't owned them before, but somehow they always end up shredded, or missing pieces, or covered in bloodstains. And then they have to go find a new tailor, because tailors are _nosy_ and always want to know what happened to the _last_ tuxedo, and the last tailor had given them a _very_ suggestive look when they said that it had gotten torn while they were busy.

Brian doesn't _like_ other people giving Creote suggestive looks. Only _he's_ allowed to do that.

Now they're standing near the corner of the ballroom, having skirted the receiving line and been briefly introduced to Barbara's father in what may have been the most excruciatingly awkward moment of Brian's _entire life._ Wayne himself hasn't showed yet, but Brian's heard that he always ditches these things. Not that he much relishes the idea of meeting a rich socialite, especially one who might _recognize_ him—he's fairly sure his father knew the Waynes. Honestly neither of them much relishes being at a large party, but there wasn't any escaping it.

“Oh, wow, did you two actually find the quiet spot?” They're being approached by a slim man with dark hair. He moves like he's actually comfortable here, and the one bright spot in his outfit is his vividly blue bowtie. “There always is one at these things.”

Brian shakes hands with him uncertainly. “Have I met you before? Creote, have I met him before? If I have please excuse me.”

Creote frowns. “Not that I know of.”

“Oh right! I'm Dick.” Dick shakes hands with Creote as well.

Something about the way he moves is making Brian suspicious, and after a moment it dawns on him. “Wait, are you—”

“Yes.”

“ _Oh._ I _do_ remember you.”

Dick smiles pleasantly at him—the man _does_ have a way of smiling that makes one feel very welcome. “It's nice to finally meet you out of costume. I've heard a lot about you.”

This is of course when the ballroom doors crash open and a crowd of Mr. Freeze's goons attempt to rob the guests.

But of course when you drag _Oracle_ to a party she doesn't want to go to, you _also_ drag all of her superhero friends, who are still incredibly dangerous people even when they're not in costume. Many of them have in fact come armed, or already _are_ armed by the very nature of their training. So it's not a very long fight. Everyone acquits themselves rather nicely, the Freeze goons are turned over to police custody, and the gala continues as if nothing untoward has happened. In fact, a number of the civilians start chatting animatedly about how _last_ year's robbery was much more exciting.

Brian looks over at Creote, stifles laughter, and decides that he doesn't feel like being overheard. “<Your tuxedo is a _mess._ Couldn't you have dodged a _little?_ >”

Creote raises an eyebrow at him and says, “<I was focusing on the _fight._ _You_ seemed to be focusing mainly on Nightwing's— >”

“<Don't be ridiculous, you know I only look at yours.>”

“<I'll grant that it's _very_ nice. >”

“<Ok, maybe I looked a little. If you're admitting that you did too.>”

The band has finally managed to reassemble itself, and they strike up a sprightly Viennese waltz, looking a bit strained. Creote cocks his head, listens for a moment, and then says, “<Dance with me.>”


	20. At The Wayne Gala: Two Tanka

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Dancing

_Savant_  
Why aren't we always  
dancing? What made me so blind  
As to miss your gaze?  
I don't recall. I hope this  
dance makes up for lost time.

 _Creote_  
I love you so long  
I'd almost given up hope.  
Mine now, man most fine,  
And thus, my love, forever  
This dance—crimefighters in love.


	21. Onion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Cooking/baking

Normally only one of them cooks.

They both enjoy cooking, of course, but for different reasons. Brian can learn _anything,_ and that includes cooking—every time he cooks he makes something new, just for the joy of learning it. Creote cooks food that he's always known how to cook, or has learned well and enjoyed, a repertoire not large but relaxing. So when it's Brian's turn they have baked haddock, they have chicken marsala, they have lobster thermidor and birds' nest soup, and when it's Creote's turn they have dumplings, solyanka, many types of salad and vast quantities of garlic bread. The last is something that Creote has explained that he only discovered when he was twenty-seven, and it's one of his favorite foods now.

They don't often cook together, then, because their methods of and attitudes towards cooking are mostly incompatible, and also because they're both very big and the kitchen isn't. Tonight is an experiment.

“What are we making?”

“Tripe. Baked with mushrooms and millet.”

Brian blinks. “Where did you find tripe in Gotham?”

Creote shrugs. “A small grocery near here. They sell very good chocolate. The recipe is my aunt's.” As they speak he's busy dumping out what looks like a vast bag of mushrooms into a colander. “Here, if you take care of these I can mince onions.”

“Of course.” Brian hunts for a paring knife to avoid feeling vaguly abashed at not knowing that Creote has an aunt. Although it does sound a bit familiar, so perhaps he simply forgot. It's not like it would be the first time that he's forgotten something important. Sometimes it seems like his whole life is just a series of moments where he forgot something important.

Creote has pulled out the other ingredients and they start chopping side by side in what is almost the comfortable silence of the morning routine. Mornings don't typically include an onion, though, and Brian's eyes start to water—Creote is somehow immune, probably from long years of onion-heavy cooking. And then, a sudden wave of misery, as he realizes how much he still doesn't know about the other man, or how much he might have been told that he then forgot. Why is it that he can so easily learn the how of tasks, but is so bad at learning the why of people? What crime could he have committed to require that he be punished like _this?_ He doesn't know anything about Creote's family, couldn't say where the other man is from, knows what he likes to eat and read and watch and do in bed but not really that much about his past and the thing of it is, he's not sure if he doesn't know because he never knew or because he forgot. And come to think of it he _can't_ remember right now what Creote's favorite dish is, or what movie they watched last night.

“Sir?”

It seems like everyone else is so _good_ at doing this sort of thing. Despite all the jokes in the media, all the couples he sees are forever _remembering_ little details about each other—“Oh, right, your sister went to Prague,” “Oh yes of _course_ I know what town you're from.” Notes and details. Layers and layers that Brian doesn't _catch_ because he's not very good at reading people and he'll forget in five minutes anyway.

“Brian. What's wrong?”

 _“Speak French when you can't remember the English for a thing.” Alice in Wonderland._ Not in French, but in Russian, “ <I didn't remember that you had an aunt.>”

Creote looks surprised. “<Is that all? I don't think I've ever mentioned her before.”

“<But I didn't know that either.>” He drops his paring knife into the mushrooms, which have all now been cut into perfectly even pieces. “<Why am I so _bad_ at this? >”

“<You're _not._ >” There's a faint clatter as Creote puts down the knife he was using to chop the onion, and then his hands are on Brian's shoulders, gripping tightly. “<You are exactly right at this.>”

“<But you could be doing so much _better!_ You could have someone who _doesn't_ get into trouble constantly and who _remembers_ that you have an aunt and what your favorite thing is for dinner. >”

“<Brian, my aunt was a bitter old woman who stopped speaking to me when she learned that I liked men. She was simply a very good cook. And _no._ I could not be doing any better. >”

“<But—>”

“< _Perhaps_ I could go find another man. Someone with a memory like Oracle's, who knows every single thing I tell him and remembers every time we've ever argued to stew over for years and years. But I would not _love_ him. I love _you._ You have layers that other men do not have. >” Creote gestures to the cutting board. “<Like the onion there. Which is true even if it's also cliché.>”

“<So I'm an onion. I'm a root vegetal and I make people cry.>”

“<Now you're fishing for compliments.>”

“<I'm still having difficulty processing the idea that you actually think that of me.>”

“<Should I say it again? I will if it helps. _I love you._ And I could not be doing any better. >”

“<I'm also having difficulty processing the idea that I may be luckier than anyone else on the planet. I've never been lucky before. I love you.>”

“<And now we're in a romance novel.>”

The absurdity of that comment is too much, and Brian snorts a laugh, onion tears still streaming from his eyes. “<I don't know, I think I'd make a decent Fabio.>”

“<Nonsense. You're _much_ better-looking than he is. >” Creote turns and surveys the kitchen, and then suddenly his face falls. “<...and I've forgotten to buy the millet.>”

“<Will that make this difficult?>

“<Impossible, actually. The grain is essential.>”

A pause, and then laughter from both of them, breathless laughter at how ridiculous their lives are, until finally Creote manages to take a deep breath and say, “<I've never liked tripe much anyway. It was really just nostalgia. And we can have it tomorrow once I've gone to the store.>”

“<Why don't we order a pizza?>”

“<Yes. Pizza.>”

“<On which you like garlic and anchovies. _That_ I remember. And I'll make garlic bread. >”


	22. Perpetual

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: In battle, side by side

If nothing else, he should have realized that Creote loved him the first time they sparred, or at least the first time they were in an actual fight together. They move with a synchronicity that's more romantic than anything else Brian has ever experienced, each understanding where the other is and what he's doing with a precision that's almost psychic. Right now they're fighting a gang—two gangs, actually, breaking up a fight that would have taken many criminal lives and probably just as many civilians if it had been allowed to escalate. Together, in the midst of the fight, they're a perpetual motion machine, one picking up where the other leaves off.

Brian kicks, takes a gang member in the stomach, and ducks under a blow that Creote then blocks, sending that attacker reeling back to stumble into three others, toppling them into a heap like bowling pins. Rising from the crouch leads naturally into a balletic lift that both removes his feet from the path of an oncoming swung chain and allows him to kick the chain-wielder in the face without leaving too many dangerous openings. It does also mean that both of Creote's hands are on his waist instead of available for punching, but that's only a temporary inconvenience, mitigated by the briefly expanded perspective on the battlefield.

 _“Oh my god, this might be the most pornographic thing I've ever seen, and I've fought side by side with_ Nightwing. _”_

“Huntress, what—how are you watching this?”

_“Traffic cameras. Oracle went to the bathroom. Seriously, how do you two ever leave the bedroom?”_

Brian can't respond for a moment, because he's busy leaning under Creote's arm to break someone's hand—it _is,_ generally, the safest way to make sure that they can't keep holding a knife on you. “The pleasure you ladies derive from spying on us continues to unnerve me.”

_“We gotta get our kicks somewhere. Oh, hey, Zinda, Dinah, come watch this.”_

“Don't call them over! We're not a television show!”

_“Helena, what are you—ooh. When did Babs get the Spice Channel?”_

_“Well, hey, I don't know the Spice Channel from Adam, but you fellas are a sight for sore eyes.”_

Creote says something _extremely_ rude in Russian, and Brian manages a “Do you _mind?_ ” as he sweeps the legs out from under an attacker.

_“What are you all doing at my—wow. Helena, I only was in the bathroom for five minutes, how did you manage to find my porn so quickly?”_

_“I have my ways.”_

“Don't you ladies have some _crime_ you could be fighting?”

 _“I_ am _fighting crime. Tonight we're dealing with a white-collar job. Strictly indoors work.”_

“Then why are you spying on _us?_ ”

 _“I spy on everyone._ Helena _is spying on you. She's the one who pulled up this feed.”_

_“Yes, because I noticed that you had a macro marked 'Porn' and I wanted to see what it did. And guess who it searches for?”_

_“Hey, it doesn't_ just _look for them.”_

“You bookmarked us.” Creote raises an eyebrow at Brian as he breaks a gang member's nose. “As pornography.”

“I don't think I want to know any more about what's being implied here, but I'd like to say now that you are a _sick woman._ ” Brian disarms the last attacker and unloads his gun, scattering the bullets.

 _“I don't actually—it's an expression! I'm_ sure _you've heard it! You know, food porn, book porn...I like to have something on when I'm working, and sometimes it's interesting to watch a good fight. It's not actually_ porn _for me. All that macro does is find me a fight to analyze. You were the lucky ones tonight.”_

“That might actually disturb me more.” They're leaning on each other now, barely breathing hard, the street around them littered with groaning gang members. It wouldn't be safe to _leave_ them in the street, of course, so together Brian and Creote zip tie their hands and feet and haul them onto the sidewalk after confiscating all remaining weapons. Even like this, in the slow part of the fight, they're both hyper-aware of themselves, a tandem dance of _zip-_ lift _-drag_ while the few opponents who remain conscious curse sluggishly at them.

“We should begin looking for the cameras.” Creote rubs at the back of his neck and gestures to a traffic camera up on a pole. “And covering them.”

Brian nods. “Agreed.”

 _“You can't do that! I_ need _that footage!”_

_“It's ok, Babs, we won't tell Batman that you're a creepy voyeur and you like to watch guys fight.”_

_“Shut_ up, _Dinah!”_

“I don't think you'll need to tell him anything.” Brian is looking directly into the traffic camera, Creote holding him up. “I'm sure he already knows. Sasha, do I still have that Sharpie?”


	23. Hurt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Arguing

“I don't _need_ you.”

The words are spoken, and they can't be unspoken, no matter how much Brian wishes they could be, no matter how much he knows that he doesn't mean them. The argument itself is hardly even important at this point; it started out as some minor disagreement about a crime they'd dealt with earlier in the night and then escalated until they were both shouting in a way that they don't normally shout. They're both tired and bruised and ill-tempered and _wet,_ because they spent their patrol in the pouring rain, and Brian thinks he's coming down with a cold, and they were angrier and angrier, and then he said it.

He doesn't know _why_ he said it. Not that he's forgotten, this time. He didn't forget, he just...doesn't know why. It was a stupid thing to say. A cruel thing, the kind of thing that only _gets_ said because someone's angry and wants to hurt someone else.

If that's what Brian was trying to do, he's clearly succeeded. Creote looks hurt and upset and still angry, and he's not saying anything, which is unbearable.

“I—”

“I need to shower.” Clipped, barely a comment at all. And Creote walks off.

Brian stares after him, feeling helpless. _Is this it? Did I finally ruin it?_

_Is this how it ends?_


	24. Needful

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Making up afterwards

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: FIRE.
> 
> This story includes an account of a fire rescue operation in a large residential building, and it gets fairly intense. If this is something likely to upset you, please skip it (you won't miss too much, this thing doesn't have a ton of continuity).

Waking up alone is strange, particularly when he's alone in a bed that he normally shares, which is far too big for one person—they had to make it themselves, specially, to ensure that it had room for both of them. Creote makes sure that Brian takes his pill in the morning, and he cooks, but otherwise doesn't speak at all, looking sad and injured as he does. Brian doesn't speak either, because he doesn't know what to say. He's not good at apologizing to begin with, and isn't in any way sure how to make an apology of this magnitude. For a moment he considers calling Black Canary; Dinah might be able to give him some advice. But...she wouldn't. Or she might, but he doesn't want to ask her for it.

They leave for their evening patrols separately, and Brian finds that he's not really acting at peak capacity. He's so used to having Creote by his side that it's like he's lost a limb. For the most part he does all right, but he takes a few hits that wouldn't have ever landed if he could focus. Or if Creote had been there.

Then he hears the sirens—not police cars, but fire trucks. And not at a business. In a residential area. He normally tries to avoid fires, not wanting to run into Batman again, but when he looks up he realizes that he can see it on the sky. It's a big fire. They'll need everyone who can help. He hurries there. The first firefighter he meets protests when he says he wants to help, but then another one—older, with a shiny old burn scar on the side of his face—looks at Brian's still very plain costume, nods, and throws him a mask. “Some of the others are already here. Get people out.”

He straps on the mask and dives in.

It's not an arson, but it's almost more sickening, because it's _human error._ Some idiot fell asleep in front of the television with a cigarette in hand, and now the apartment building is in flames and it's trying to spread. The place where the fire started is easy to pinpoint, because it stinks of charred meat. Brian's stomach would roll, but for a cold part of his mind that says, _It's not me. That's not the smell of fire on_ my _skin. This is someone else, who needs help._

He passes other costumed heroes in the blaze, all similarly masked, breaking down locked doors and hurrying people out of their apartments. Huntress runs past, a squalling child on one hip, her other arm around the shoulders of a coughing man who must be at least seventy. At one point he sees Batman, using some kind of shaped charge to take out an entire apartment wall so that the inhabitants can jump out to the firefighters waiting below. There are firefighters too, of course, but this isn't the only building being evacuated.

For the most part, though, he isn't looking for heroes—he's looking for civilians. Many of the able-bodied have already gotten out by the fire escape, but this is a cheap building in a bad part of town, and the metal stairs on the outside of the top floors are rotten with rust. One teenage boy with a broken leg has to get carried out over Brian's shoulder, with a painful additional bounce at the small of his back that's the rat cage the boy won't let go of. His parents are out to dinner, he managed to cough, but save the rats. Please—they're already in their travel cage.

He's not sure how many times he's gone in. All he can smell is smoke and burn. The fire has one confirmed casualty besides the initial smoker, and there may be more, but they need to get everyone out before the building collapses. It's awful in a way that very few things are, that _very_ few things have ever been. The _stink_ of it is enough that it almost destroys him.

My daughter, says one woman. She's not even saying words that he hears, it's just an _impression._ He knows what she's trying to get across. My daughter, please get her out. We fought, we had an argument, I don't want her to die, I've haven't said sorry, I said such awful things. I went to the store and came back and I don't see her. We're in number seventy-three. Her name is Melissa. Please get my daughter.

He charges back in, ignoring the creaking floors, climbing hand over hand up the broken railings where stairs have already crumbled. _Is this what Batman feels like, this awful tension of knowing that he can't save everyone? What if I can't get to her? She needs me._

He gets to number seventy-three and the door swings open. Melissa is heavily pierced, has a tattoo on her left arm, and is on the floor, not unconscious but coughing badly. He scoops her up and throws her over his shoulder, her head down to avoid as much smoke as possible, and runs for it.

The ceiling is cracking as he leaps down the stairwell, taking steps five and ten at a time.

It's cracking.

It's falling. The building is falling. It's falling on him.

It's falling on Melissa.

It's not falling.

He looks up at a large figure beside him, face hidden by a mask, who throws the piece of fallen ceiling to the side. Caught with one hand, the other arm supporting a whimpering twenty-something in a bathrobe.

They make for the nearest hole in the outside wall together, dodging falling debris in perfect sync, and help their charges leap down to safety before going down themselves. They don't aim for where the firefighters are waiting below, but climb down part of the way using the outside of the building. The firefighters need to focus on saving civilians. _They_ can save themselves.

Everyone is out. There are people getting medical treatment, people being loaded into ambulances, pacing cats and dogs, someone's macaw perched on top of a streetlight with three parakeets, the boy with the rats sitting on the curb with the cage pressed to his chest. Four covered bodies. They turn in their masks and duck away as soon as they know everyone is safe.

As soon as they're far enough away to avoid notice they duck into an alley and look at each other straight for the first time that evening.

Brian stares. “Your _hair..._ ”

Creote shrugs. “Hair grows back. Lives are more important.” His ponytail is so much ash on his shoulders, crumbled away by the heat.

A long silence and then, “I'm an idiot. I love you and I need you and I'm an idiot and I'm sorry.”

“You're not an idiot. Or perhaps I'm also an idiot. We shouldn't have slept on that.” Another pause, and then, “I thought you would die. Again.”

“We helped save the day.”

“Yes.”

“ _We._ Not just me. Or you. _We_ helped. I couldn't have done it without you.”

“I missed you on patrol. A man almost shot me.”

“I would have broken his nose if he had.”

“And that is part of why I love you.”

And they're embracing and they're singed and shaken and alive.

 


	25. See Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Gazing into each others' eyes

He's been called many things in his life, but in his heart he is always Sasha. It's what his mother called him (unless she was annoyed, in which case she called him “Aleksandr Igorov Creote, you dreadful boy”). His father called him Sasha too, as did his other relatives (he hasn't spoken to most in a long time), his school friends, his coworkers (Big Sasha, who is excellent in a fight but perhaps too friendly with Kolya in SigInt). His few lovers (Kolya in SigInt among them) have all called him Sasha. It's been said in so many ways. With affection, with amusement, with disbelief, with scorn.

And now there's this. He's found the way he most likes to hear his name—the voice, the tone, and the man speaking.

_“Sasha...”_

Said with _that_ precise, pleasing hitch, _that_ particular breathlessness, as he locks his gaze with a pair of changeable eyes that are currently heavy-lidded and filled with love and heartbreaking bafflement.

“Oh, do...do that _again._ ”

He doesn't reply. Verbally. Which isn't to suggest, some detached part of his mind notes, that he doesn't do _anything_ with his mouth.

A hiss of breath, and again, _“Oh, Sasha...”_

People have made so many ridiculous assumptions about him because he's so large—he towers over most others, always looking down at his surroundings. It never seems to occur to them that on occasion he might perhaps like to be able to look _up_ at someone, particularly such a someone as this.

Brian's eyes change color from moment to moment, shifting between a thousand shades of blue and gray to fit his mood. An icy gray for anger, pale blue with a gray ring for humor, and so on and so forth. Now, for _this_ mood, the color is a vivid Atlantic blue. His eyelashes, absurdly dark, flutter downward to brush his cheeks, and Sasha hums a comment. _No. Look at me._

 _See me._ That was the thought that ruled his life for so long. It didn't take up all of his waking thoughts, but it was always there, niggling. _I love you, but you don't see me. See me._

And now he is seen, his love is returned, and they've gone from the shyness and hesitation of two people trying awkwardly to redefine their relationship to _this,_ in a home they share, with a mattress that creaks a little as Brian grips the edge of it, breathing hard.

His name, his real name, is in the mouth of the man he loves, and _his_ mouth is... _well._ And he's looking up at Brian, who looks down at him, their eyes meeting. _Seeing_ him.

_“Sasha...”_


	26. Someday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Getting married

“This is a dream,” he muttered. “I'm seventy-five percent certain that this is a dream.”

“No dream. A stakeout. Remember?”

“Oh. Yes. I had hoped that it was real.”

“Your tie is crooked.” Sasha reaches up and adjusts it for him. “And when we marry it will be in greater splendor than this.”

Brian blinks. “Then someday you would...?”

The response, at first, is a kiss, followed by a whisper of, “ _Yes._ Very much yes.”

There's a little sound over their earpieces, which after a moment Brian realizes is the sound of Oracle sniffling. _“Oh...um. Sorry, I hate...I hate to interrupt, but it's your cue.”_ Another sniffle. _“Music's about to start. I'm tracking our guys, they're on their way. Everyone else has their places. Let's not let these psychos ruin another couple's day, all right?”_

“Yes, of course.”

A moment later the music starts, and they walk into the room together. Earlier, when they had helped plan this stakeout, Brian had refused to use the march from _Lohengrin—_ it's clearly bad luck, classic or no, especially when it's his and Sasha's lives at stake.

They stand side by side at the altar, and Brian tries very hard to concentrate on his surroundings and not on the serene voice of Connor Hawke, looking mildly silly in his priest's collar but somehow completely collected despite that. Brian's own comments, when they're required, come out by rote—his head feels too fuzzy to improvise. The pews are full of other heroes, all disguised. This operation drew a lot of attention when Oracle started planning it; nobody is very happy about the activities of their current targets.

_“Ok, we have operatives of Kobra American Reformist Church on the premises, right on time. Contact in three...two...”_

Connor Hawke smiles at them and says, “You may kiss.”

Sasha bends down to kiss him and Brian thinks, _Someday. Someday._ In his earpiece he hears Oracle sniffling again.

The doors burst open, a shot goes flying over their heads, and the first Kobra operative to enter the room shouts, “Kali Yuga will not tolerate your unnatural decadence! Fall before the servants of God, deviant scum!”

Just as he prepares to fire another shot the gun is knocked from his hands by an arrow shot from the choir stalls, followed by the cheerful voice of the senior Green Arrow. “Kali Yuga may not like deviants, but the Justice League _hates_ bigots.”

The Kobra operative shakes his head, staring at his fallen gun. “I am not alone! The children of Kali Yuga have powerful allies!”

“So do we. Congratulations, son. You've just hit the big time.” Half of the Justice League rises from the pews, throwing off disguises as the Kobra operative takes a step back.

Wonder Woman lifts her lasso from her belt and nods to him, frowning. “Now I think you'd like to take us back to your base so that we can clear this sorry mess up.”

The Kobra operative is shaking now, and he glances back over his shoulder. “My brothers! Attack, in the name of Kali Yuga!”

As Brian and Sasha shrug off their jackets and charge into the fray, Connor pats Brian on the shoulder. “Any time you two would like to set a date for a nicer ceremony, just let me know. I _am_ actually authorized to perform weddings.”


	27. Gifts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: On one of their birthdays

As hard a time as he may have with keeping track of the time and the date, Brian never forgets Sasha's birthday. That was true even before they were lovers, because he knows that remembering birthdays is the sort of thing that a good employer _does,_ so he always took special care. This, however, is the first birthday either one of them has had since they became anything more than two men who work together and are very close friends. Brian doesn't want to do anything wrong, so he's been keeping track of the time obsessively for weeks. There are alarms in his phone and reminders on the calendar. The heroes with whom he's on friendly terms are all prepared to remind him at a moment's notice. He has a present. He has a plan.

On the morning of Sasha's birthday an alarm wakes him up, and he slips out of bed and gets dressed without lingering or waking the other man. He cleans his teeth, showers, and takes his medication when his phone prompts him, and then goes to the kitchen and starts the app on his phone that Oracle made for him.

There's one brief, dizzying moment, when he's in the middle of flipping pancakes, where it seems like it's all been a dream, and any moment now he'll wake to...something else. Something less pleasant than this.

He hears a rustling at the doorway, and then behind him Sasha says, with some surprise, “You made breakfast.”

“Yes. Happy birthday.” Brian flashes him a smile as he flips pancakes out onto a plate. “Oracle made me an app for my phone, so that I can cook before my medication takes effect. She said, and I quote, 'tell Creote it's my birthday present to him.' She may call later; I got that distinct impression.”

“That might be nice.” Sasha smiles in pleased bemusement as Brian hands him a plate of pancakes and eggs and sausage. “Thank you.”

“You're welcome. And we're going out for dinner tonight, and not patrolling. I made reservations at a restaurant that Oracle assures me is excellent and will _not_ be attacked by Penguin goons.”

Sasha scratches the back of his head, looking even more bemused. “That sounds wonderful. Did you take your—”

“Yes. I don't actually recall now, but it's checked off on my to-do list, so I must have done. I wanted to let you sleep in. I'm sorry, I don't think these are as good as the pancakes you make. I'm _sure_ I did everything in the right order.”

“They're delicious.”

They eat the rest of breakfast in relative silence, as always, and when they're done Brian clears away the dishes. When he comes back Sasha catches him around the waist, overbalancing him so that he falls into the other man's lap. He laughs. “I believe this is the part when I'm supposed to sing. Would you like me to sing? I can do a passable Marilyn Monroe impression.”

Sasha covers a laugh. “Hardly necessary. In fact, please don't.”

Brian pretends to pout, but ends up laughing himself. “Maybe later, then. What would you like to do today? Is there anywhere you want to go?”

“Actually...”

“Yes?”

“I was thinking we might stay in.”

Not long after, Dinah, Barbara, and Zinda arrive at the apartment building and find Helena already there, sitting on the stoop, head in her hands. Barbara blinks, shifting the boxed cake in her lap. “I wasn't expecting to find you already here, Helena. We made Creote a birthday cake. Are they up yet?”

Helena doesn't look up. She just stares fixedly at the ground. “They're busy.”

Dinah frowns. “Did something happen?”

“I got here. I was going to leave something on the kitchen counter. You know, a birthday break-in. They've been decent lately.”

“...and?”

“They're busy.”

Zinda looks up at the door. “They havin' breakfast or something? Didn't want to bother them?”

“They're _very_ busy.”

There's a long pause, and then, in unison, Dinah, Zinda, and Barbara all say, _“Oh.”_


	28. Traditions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Doing something ridiculous

The banner says, “WELCOME TO JUSTICE LEAGUE TASK FORCE,” and everyone is drinking. Not all the drinks are alcoholic, but Brian is beginning to suspect that the ones that don't contain alcohol may in fact be drugged in some other way. Because they're trying to make him sing.

Not that he _can't_ sing, of course. He's a very _good_ singer. But he doesn't sing pop songs, he doesn't sing in _public,_ and he _certainly_ doesn't do karaoke, which is the last resort of people who have failed to think of anything interesting to say or do.

Helena is insisting. “Oh, come on. It's a Task Force tradition. You two are new, you have to sing. Makes you part of the team.”

Sasha stares at her and says, slowly, “I don't sing.”

Hawkman takes a sip of his drink. “You do tonight. Even I sang, and do you think I look like an enthusiastic singer?”

That's a little difficult for Brian to take. “You? You sang? _What_ did you sing?”

“I...don't actually recall most of it. I believe they made me _start_ with 'Come On Eileen,' but after that the memory gets a little fuzzy. And Manhunter sang 'Starman,' because young Huntress insisted.”

“Dinah made me sing 'Northwest Passage' even though I'm _not_ Canadian.” Captain Atom sighs and drains half of his beer.

“I made you sing that because you have a nice singing voice.” Dinah's having a boilermaker, which isn't what Brian would have expected her to order. “Anyway, it's not my turn to think of something. Huntress and I are always the ones coming up with the first songs.”

“Does that mean we can make you sing too?” Captain Atom looks pleased with the idea. “Because if so, I've heard some stories, and I have a really excellent idea.”

He taps Sasha and Helena on the shoulder, and they confer briefly, in whispers. Brian starts to worry. A glance at Dinah confirms that she, too, is apparently worrying. So are Hawkman and the Martian Manhunter—at least, inasmuch as the Martian Manhunter always looks worried. After a moment of whispering the three conspirators turn back, and Helena says, “All right! We have a first song! Come on, Dinah!”

“What—wait, it's _not my_ _turn—_ ” but Helena is already hauling Dinah to the tiny karaoke stage that inhabits a corner of the aging Hall of Justice, a shot of whiskey in her free hand.

Brian sighs with relief. “At least I don't have to—Sasha, what?”

Sasha is tugging him—dragging him, almost—to the stage. “You're singing too.”

“What? I'm _what?_ With _her?_ I can't sing with her, what if—” he drops his voice to a hiss. _“What if she's a better singer than me?”_

Sasha's response is to hand him a shot of vodka and push him towards the stage. “Drink. Then sing.”

Up on the stage, he and Dinah stare helplessly at each other and down their shots as Captain Atom starts up the karaoke machine. “This is not what I'd expected. I thought being in a Justice League auxiliary would involve more crimefighting and less...”

“Drunken camaraderie?” Dinah tosses her empty shot glass to Helena. “Welcome to the Task Force. It gets weird here.”

The music starts, and they both listen for a moment, realize what song it is, and turn to glare at each other.

Their stirring rendition of “Anything You Can Do, I Can Do Better” ends in gritted teeth and actual physical restraint, while in the background Hawkman and Captain Atom laugh uproariously and Martian Manhunter hides his smile behind a glass of water.

Once they've been hauled back to their seats, Hawkman says, “All right, then. Creote's turn. Adam came up with the last song, and I think I've got something that'll work for this one. I _was_ going to have you sing 'Born In The USA,' but they won't let me—”

“Because it's a ridiculous idea!”

“ _You_ think so, Adam. _I_ think it would be funny.”

“For no reason!”

“It's a reincarnation thing. You'll understand when you're older. Anyway, get up there and we'll get the music started.”

Sasha begins to protest, but Brian elbows him in the ribs. “They made me sing with _Dinah._ It's your turn now.”

The song is “Secret Agent Man,” and Brian is surprised to learn that Sasha has a lovely singing voice, inasmuch as Hawkman's selection for him requires singing. At the end of the song everyone applauds enthusiastically, and when Sasha returns to the table the Martian Manhunter says, “I have been meaning to ask you. Did you ever work with Anatoli Knyazev? The KGBeast?”

“Twice.” Sasha accepts another drink from Helena. “He was very...enthusiastic.”

“That's a good word choice. Enthusiastic. He was an interesting man.”

“Interesting is not the word I would use.”

Dinah and Helena have had their heads together the entire time, and now they turn back to the rest of the group, grinning, and Helena says, “Ok. More singing. _Both_ of you this time. We're breaking out the big guns.”

Brian pours himself another drink, feeling very worried, and one of Sasha's eyebrows creeps towards his hairline. “Big guns?”

Dinah's voice is a congenially menacing hiss. _“Disney.”_

Captain Atom groans. “Oh, Dinah, you're not going to make them—”

“Of _course_ I'm going to, Adam. It'll be _cute._ And also I promised Babs that I'd film it.”

“...this is going to be worse than the time you made me sing 'Circle of Life,' isn't it?”

“I'm confused.” Brian drains his drink. “What are we supposed to be singing?”

“Ever seen _Aladdin?_ ”

“Yes, but... _no._ ”

_“Yes.”_

Sasha frowns. “There are no songs for two male voices in _Aladdin._ ”

“That's very true. Now get up on stage, boys.”

Brian considers protesting, looks at Dinah and Helena's determined expressions, and then changes his mind. Instead he takes another shot and gets up, pulling Sasha to the stage with him.

Sasha still seems puzzled. “What are we singing?”

Dinah is setting up the song, and she waves to them as they get to the microphone. “Savant, you get to be Jasmine because you have the right range for it.”

There's a long pause, and then Sasha says, _“Jasmine?”_

One lengthy rendition of “A Whole New World” later, Brian is quietly plotting ways to disable Dinah permanently without killing her. If he kills her then Barbara will be upset, but perhaps he could arrange some kind of life-threatening accident, because Hawkman is smiling at them like he's somebody's grandfather watching the school play, and Brian is fairly certain that he heard Captain Atom say they were _hilarious._ And Helena has already filmed the entire thing on her phone. He may have to steal it from her later.

In retaliation, he next insists that Dinah sing “I'm Wishing,” complete with bird calls. Then Helena, one or two drinks farther in, says, “Oh my god, oh my god, J'onn, you have to do the thing. It's time.”

The Martian Manhunter takes a sip of his water. “Helena, I sing that song every time. Wouldn't you like to hear something different?”

“No. No no no. Love Shack. Now. And then I think we need to hear some Madonna.”

Manhunter's impression of the lead singer of the B-52s is unnervingly accurate, as is Helena's stirring rendition of “Like A Prayer.” Brian takes another drink and settles comfortably against Sasha's side, ignoring Captain Atom's slightly unnerved sideways glance. _Perhaps this isn't so bad. Perhaps this is what having friends is._

But Dinah still made them sing a _Disney_ song.

And for that, she will _pay._


	29. The Infamous Valentine's Day Chocolate Cannon Caper--Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Doing something sweet

“Wasn't anyone else available to fight Calendar Man?” Brian stares down at his ruined costume in some distress. Little flakes of chocolate come off each time he moves, and they're getting ground in to the living room floor. “Did it have to be us?”

“More than one attack today.” At least Sasha's hair is short now, and didn't collect as much mess. “Oracle said. Unusual amount of activity this Valentine's. Huntress and Black Canary are busy with Mr. Freeze. Poison Ivy attacked a florist; Batman and Robin are tracking her. We were the only ones free.”

“We were the only ones with _plans,_ you mean. So of course we had to fight him.”

Sasha shrugs, cracking some of the chocolate drying on his shoulders. “Perhaps. It is very good chocolate.”

“Is it? I haven't tried any yet.”

“Try some. Swiss.”

Brian starts to raise a hand to his mouth and then pauses. They _are_ home now, and alone, and their other plans _were_ interrupted by Calendar Man...

He catches one of Sasha's hands in his and sucks the index finger into his mouth, licking the chocolate off with deliberate care. It _is_ very good chocolate—milk, and not dark as he prefers, but sweet and creamy. The flavor coats his tongue, and for a moment he shuts his eyes so that he can concentrate on it.

Sasha makes a little choked sound, which Brian ignores in favor of moving on to the next finger. There's a lot of chocolate on both of them, and he's not going to be able to get it all, but he can at least clean off one hand, and if that leads to other Valentine's-Day-appropriate activities, then he's certainly not going to complain.

“You're right,” he says when he's gotten through another two fingers. “It _is_ good chocolate.”

Sasha's response is an almost pained groan, and then the larger man sways forward to lick a streak of chocolate off the side of his neck. Brian breathes sharply and loses his grip on Sasha's hand.

 _It's days like this,_ he thinks as he's pulling Sasha's shirt off over his head, _that make trying to be a good person worth it._ True, their plans for a relaxing morning in were disrupted by Calendar Man's attack on the chocolatier near Wayne Enterprises, but they saved the day, which is always a rush, and now there's chocolate _everywhere._

“I wonder,” he gasps when Sasha starts fumbling at his belt, “who he robbed to get this.” He sucks a patch of chocolate off the other man's shoulder. “It's really very good.”

“I'll check.” A hot tongue swipes over his ribs. “Lindt. Their formula.”

“Why, Sasha, I didn't know you were a—ah!—a chocolate expert.”

“Boyhood hobby. I—mm—considered becoming a chocolatier. To irritate my father.” A pause. “This zipper is stuck.”

“Too much chocolate in the teeth, I expect.”

“An impossibility. Never enough chocolate.”

“This outfit is gone anyway. We'll never get all the chocolate out.”

“I like chocolate.”

“I—oh—I noticed that. I've never noticed it before, I don't think, but I'm definitely noticing it now.”


	30. Hothouse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Doing something hot

The night is unusually hot for Gotham, and this is true in several ways. The air itself is warm and muggy, more tropical than it has any right to be in early February. Crime's up according to the police scanners; the city is full of hot cars, crimes of passion, criminals desperate and doing anything they can to escape the unnatural heat. And related again to that, Brian and Sasha are in hot pursuit, almost on the heels of a group of burglars they caught breaking into a jewelry store.

They pick the burglars off one by one, leaving them tied to lampposts and bound in doorways where the police are likely to find them. It was a large jewelry store, and thus a large job, and the group is big. One, two, three, four burglars down, until finally there's only one left, bag over his shoulder, running and ducking for all he's worth, Brian and Sasha chasing after him.

They've almost caught up with him when he jukes, ducking suddenly through a nearby doorway left strangely unlocked and hanging open despite the fact that this is Gotham and that's never safe. It's not a building Brian recognizes—they've gotten a fair distance across town—but he and his companion follow anyway and are suddenly struck with _heat._

The spike in temperature is dizzying, and Brian reels for a moment before regaining his senses enough to take in his surroundings.

_Orchids._

They're in a greenhouse, its temperature turned high, the glass ceiling far above their heads. There are orchids everywhere, and other flowers, a vast and glorious tropical jungle inexplicably tucked into the middle of one of the worst cities on Earth. Brian stumbles, catches himself on Sasha's shoulder, and stares in wonder at the riot of greenery around him.

“Brian,” Sasha whispers. “The burglar.”

Brian looks where Sasha is pointing. The burglar they were chasing is—dying. He's been seized by the lianas that dangle from one of the greenhouse's spreading jungle trees. The vines have wrapped around him tightly, as if they have minds of their own, minds that hate and wish to kill. He's strangling slowly as one tightens around his throat.

This isn't good.

“Poison Ivy.”

Then they hear a familiar deep roar, and then the faint sound of a woman's mocking voice, and they realize that they've stumbled into someone else's battle. Batman is here, and so is Ivy, and if Brian and Sasha don't leave now they'll be caught in the middle.

They hurry for the door, but just as they get close enough Brian trips and goes sprawling into one of the orchid beds, taking in a deep lungful of their sickly-sweet scent as he gasps for breath. The smell of flowers fills his chest, and he blinks hard. His vision swims. Behind him he hears Sasha curse in Russian and move to help him up, in the process getting a waft of the orchid scent himself.

The effects kick in as he stands, and he stumbles again. Everything is suddenly fitting together differently in his mind.

“It's...it's so _clear._ ”

Sweat is streaming down his face, but he doesn't notice it because he's lost in memories suddenly straightforward for the first time in his life. Events follow in a logical, linear progression, one to the next, not a web but a track from birth through childhood and on to now, in this hothouse in Gotham City with a man he is proud to call his lover. Everything in the memories is clear as well, and he remembers details that he hadn't seen, not side by side but before and before and before. He laughs, abruptly. “How did I not _see_ before? How did it take me so long to notice you?”

Beside him Sasha is reeling, eyes clouded. “<What is happening? When is this? I, I know you, I _know_ I know you, but I don't...where are we? >”

Brian knows what's happening. It's happened to him. Not so badly for a long time, but it's happened to him. “<We're in Gotham City. You're thirty-seven. It's a Tuesday, mid-February. My name is–>”

“<Savant. Brian, who I—yes, I remember. I remember you, and you, and more of you, but not—how do you stand it? Is this what it's always like?>”

“<Yes. Always and always, but for you. You help me to not forget. And I've gotten used to it.>”

“<And I remember that I—but you didn't—>”

“<Not for some time.>” The heat is barely tolerable, and Batman and Poison Ivy's conflict is drawing closer, but Brian ignores it. It's not the issue now. It's not as important as getting Sasha away from the scent of orchids, towards the door and fresh air untainted by Ivy's floronic drugs. “<I was blind. To be quite honest, though, seeing things like this, I don't know how you do it. Everything seems so far _away_ from me. Nothing's immediate. >”

“<But—>” Sasha shakes his head, trying to regain some clarity of thought. “<But you love me.>”

“<Yes. I love you.>”

“<For...for how long? I don't, I can't...>”

“<Always and always.>” Everything is painfully clear in his head; not only are his memories ordered, but everything seems straight, gridlike in a way that almost hurts. For a moment he thinks that, if given the opportunity right now, he could defeat any ten chess grandmasters, outthink any scientist, outwit Batman himself. It's what he's wanted all his life, but _none_ of it matters now. “ <I love you always and always.>”

They're at the door now, and Brian shoulders it open so that they can trip through into a night unnacceptably hot but clear-aired nonetheless.

Sasha blinks fuzzily. “<Good. Good, yes, I love you. For always. I heard someone else in there. Should we go back?>”

Brian considers it. It's easy to consider, to run through all the possibilities open to him. He could go back, help in the fight, try to be good.

But no. “<Batman knows what he's doing. I'm more concerned with seeing you safe.>”

Right now he could outwit Batman and Oracle together, but he doesn't _want_ to.

He has something real to care about.


	31. Attempted Love Poem (Savant, to Creote)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bonus day!

(Is this the ending? Where did I begin?)  
I couldn't really tell you what I know.  
I have you, though. I guess that means I win.

My love, I never wanted to fit in,  
But rise above and take my rising slow.  
(Is this the ending? Where did I begin?)

I was so blind it almost seems a sin.  
(You could have told me any time, you know.)  
I have you, though. I guess that means I win.

I cannot live inside a different skin,  
Can't hide from pain and fear, can't run from woe.  
(Is this the ending? Where did I begin?)

All my excuses now seem paper-thin.  
(My studies never covered love, you know.)  
I have you, though. I guess that means I win.

And now you're mine, and I can only grin—  
Total recall! For in my heart you glow.  
(Is this the ending? Where did I begin?)  
I'm loved. I love. I guess that means I win.

**Author's Note:**

> So there you go. As I said in the master post, that there is a solid month of my life. Please let me know if you enjoyed it. Thanks for reading!


End file.
